26 June – The Long Road to Darchen
Our day began early. By 7:30 a.m., we had set out from Saga for Darchen, a journey of nearly 500 kilometres across the Tibetan Plateau. Breakfast was simple but nourishing—puris with potato and soya chunk curry, accompanied by semolina porridge.
By now, the effects of altitude were becoming evident. Many fellow pilgrims looked tired, groggy, and restless. Some struggled with headaches and nausea, while others could barely manage a few bites of breakfast. Watching them, I realised that the mountain tests each traveller differently.
By lunchtime, however, we were treated to an excellent meal—rajma chawal, tofu curry, fresh salad, and slices of sweet watermelon. My appetite remained good, and I ate heartily, conscious that I would need every bit of strength for the demanding parikrama that lay ahead.
As the journey continued, I found myself increasingly appreciative of our Sherpa team. While we rested in our seats, they worked tirelessly behind the scenes—loading and unloading luggage, coordinating meals, checking on everyone's needs, and quietly ensuring that the pilgrimage progressed smoothly. Their dedication was easy to overlook, yet it formed the backbone of our entire journey.
The long drive across the plateau was slowly carrying us towards Darchen, the gateway to Mount Kailash. With every passing kilometre, the anticipation within the group grew stronger.
The road from Saga was remarkably smooth. The buses moved swiftly across the vast plateau, where the terrain was mostly flat with only gentle undulations. The kilometres seemed to pass effortlessly.
At around 3:00 p.m., just beyond a security checkpoint, our guide announced that we were about to catch our first glimpse of Mount Kailash and Lake Mansarovar. Everyone instinctively turned towards the windows.
There it was.
Before us rose two magnificent landmarks of the sacred landscape. To the south stood the majestic, snow-clad Gurla Mandhata, its massive presence overlooking Lake Mansarovar. Fed by glaciers from the surrounding mountains, the lake shimmered in shades of emerald and turquoise beneath the brilliant Tibetan sky. Beyond it, serene and unmistakable, stood Mount Kailash. Though not the tallest peak in the region, its striking symmetry and spiritual aura made it instantly recognisable.
For a few moments, the crowd fell silent. I found tears welling up in my eyes. After months of preparation and years of dreaming, the sight before me seemed almost unreal. I hugged the organisers in gratitude, overwhelmed by the realisation that I had finally reached this sacred landscape
Soon afterwards, we arrived at the western shore of Lake Mansarovar. The water was icy, though not unbearably so. I splashed a handful over my face and head, and a sudden shiver ran down my spine.
A little away from the pilgrims, I sat cross-legged by the lakeside. I gathered a few stones and built a small cairn before settling into meditation with open eyes. There was nothing to seek and nothing to imagine. The mountain, the lake, the vast sky, and the silence were enough.
Around me, many pilgrims took a ritual bath despite the cold and performed worship with the small brass Shivalingam we had received at the beginning of the journey. I chose simply to sit and gaze at the ethereal beauty of the lake. Its crystal-clear, emerald waters shimmered in the afternoon light, and for that moment, quiet contemplation felt like my truest form of prayer.
The Kailash–Mansarovar region is often described as the "Water Tower of Asia." Within a relatively small area arise four of the continent's great river systems. The Brahmaputra (Yarlung Tsangpo) flows east across Tibet before making a dramatic turn through the Himalayas into Arunachal Pradesh and Assam. The Karnali, the largest tributary of the Ganga, descends through western Nepal before joining the Ghaghara in India. The Indus, which gave India its name, flows northwest through Ladakh and Pakistan before emptying into the Arabian Sea. The Sutlej also originates in this region and eventually joins the Indus. In striking contrast, Rakshastal is a landlocked saline lake with no outlet. Rich in dissolved minerals, its waters are unsuitable for drinking, yet they possess a stark beauty of their own.
As we drove past, I found myself admiring both lakes equally. One is revered as a symbol of purity and spiritual renewal, the other wrapped in mythology and associated with Ravana. Nature, however, seemed indifferent to these labels. Under the clear blue sky, both appeared equally magnificent.
That evening, after dinner, I wandered into a small Tibetan curio shop opposite our hotel in Darchen. The shelves were lined with prayer wheels, beads, incense, and Buddhist artefacts.
Among them, I spotted a tiny pendant of Green Tārā. For just 25 CNY, I knew instantly that I wanted it. The shopkeeper threaded it onto a thick dark brown cord and added a small coral bead, transforming the little pendant into a simple yet beautiful necklace.
Green Tara has long been my favourite Buddhist deity. In Vajrayāna Buddhism, she is revered as the compassionate saviourress who responds swiftly to the sufferings of sentient beings and helps them overcome fear and obstacles. Her mantra, Om Tare Tuttare Ture Svaha, sung so beautifully by Ani Choying Drolma, has always been one of my favourites.
As a student of Indian traditions, I also find it fascinating that Tara occupies an honoured place in Hinduism. She is one of the Daśa Mahāvidyās, the ten great manifestations of the Divine Mother in the Śākta–Śaiva tradition, where she is revered as the compassionate guide who helps devotees cross the ocean of suffering. The Sanskrit root tṛ means "to cross," and the name Tārā itself suggests "the one who ferries across."
Only later did I realise another beautiful connection. The highest point of the Kailash parikrama is Dolma La, named after Dolma, the Tibetan name for Tara. The pass is regarded not merely as a mountain crossing but as a symbolic passage from one state of being to another. Wearing the little Green Tārā pendant around my neck, I wondered if it had found me at exactly the right moment.
27 June – In the Shadow of Kailash
The bus dropped us at Yamadwar, the traditional starting point of the Kailash parikrama. A modest gateway standing against the vast Himalayan landscape, it marks the symbolic entrance to one of the world's most sacred pilgrimages.
The allocation of horses and porters was done through a lottery. My horseman turned out to be a very young, inexperienced boy who was supervised by an older handler. They were understandably anxious that I should remain on horseback throughout the journey, especially since the most demanding stretch lay ahead.
I, however, had a different plan. I had opted for a horse mainly as a precaution for the second day, when the climb to Dolma La would test every pilgrim. On this first day, I wanted to experience the parikrama on foot as much as I comfortably could. After riding for about a kilometre, I dismounted and began to walk at my own pace, using my trekking pole and paying close attention to my breathing. Later, as we approached Diraphuk, I mounted the horse again.
In Hindu belief, Yamadwar—literally "the Gateway of Yama," the god of death—represents leaving behind one's worldly attachments before entering the sacred realm of Mount Kailash. Many pilgrims circumambulate the gateway before setting out, viewing the parikrama as a symbolic journey of death to the old self and rebirth into a life of greater awareness. For Tibetan Buddhists too, the circuit around Kailash is an act of purification, believed to cleanse the accumulated karma of countless lifetimes.
The trail was a delight to walk. To our left flowed the Lha Chu River, its icy waters rushing gently through the valley. On our right rose the magnificent western face of Mount Kailash. As the hours passed and the sun moved across the sky, the mountain seemed to transform itself. The changing light revealed new ridges, shadows, and textures, making it appear almost like a different mountain every time I looked up. It was impossible to resist turning back every few minutes for another glimpse.
En route, we stopped at a small teahouse for lunch. A simple meal of steamed rice and stir-fried vegetables tasted wonderfully satisfying in the crisp mountain air. Sometimes, hunger and fresh air are the best seasonings. Suparna joins me at the restaurant briefly but I am mostly on my own.
With every step, Mount Kailash appeared closer and more imposing. The pilgrimage had ceased to be an idea. It had become a lived experience. We reach Diraphuk in broad daylight and I find a room to rest. But I keep going out to see the north face of Kailash and Diraphuk monastery beyond the river bed.
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